Songs of the Sea
by Kandragon
Summary: A short collection of eight drabbles about friendship and the sea, starring the surviving members of the Fellowship of the Ring. Chapter 3: At the Grey Havens Sam learns an important lesson from Glorfindel: sometimes the best a person can do is mend, not heal.
1. Between Took and Wizard

Disclaimer: Same dealio, don't own, you know.

A/N: Oi, on yet another topic that's been written about to death? YES! Anyway, these will be in chronological order, each chapter from the perspective of a different member of the Fellowship, and set in the last days of the Third Age to 120~ of the Fourth Age. Each drabble will be 500 words or less.

See you soon for the next update!

000

 _ **Between Took and Wizard**_

"Gandalf! Gandalf!" Pippin trotted up to the aged wizard on soft, hobbit feet in the gardens of Minas Tirith. But Gandalf, for the moment, did not notice. He yanked on the white sleeve of the wizard's robe. "Gandalf?"

That, and the resulting stumble and huff of annoyance meant he had finally caught Gandalf's attention. Glaring down at the hobbit, the wizard spoke, "Peregrin Took, can you not tell that I am off to an important meeting with the king and his guests?"

"Strider can wait." Pippin folded his arms. A mischievous grin curved the corners of his mouth. "He's waited a very _long_ time already, why not a few minutes more? Patience. That's what a king needs! After all, he'll be waited on hand and foot soon enough, if you ask me."

The wizard chuckled, dropping, for a moment, his stern façade. "What is it Pippin?" asked the wizard, his head inclined so that the tall hobbit did not have to strain his neck to look him in the eye. Leisurely, they ambled through the gardens.

Pippin sighed, glancing southward for a moment. "Elves can't get sick, correct?"

"No, they cannot," Gandalf said, sadness deepening the creases near his mouth and eyes, "though they might die from heartache or injury."

He nodded. "I remember hearing such back in Rivendell," Pippin said, taking a seat on the white brick ledge which encircled one of the raised flowerbeds, his toes barely touched the marble walkway. "But…if elves can't get sick…"

Pippin paused, chewing his bottom lip. "Why is Legolas acting so…"

"Ah." The wizard squeezed his shoulder. Pippin looked up at him.

"Ah?" He shook his head in dismay. "He's gone _strange…er_ , Gandalf! Legolas has always been so happy, joyful! Loves trees and flowers and plants and horses and all those natural things, but now he oft stares south, as though yearning for a long lost love, and sings about the sea and seagulls. If elves can't get sick, what is wrong with him?"

"And they're always such sad songs," he whispered. "I do not wish to lose yet another friend." Downcast eyes.

"Not even Elrond can heal this, young hobbit…if, indeed, there is anything to be healed," Gandalf said. The hobbit tilted his head. Why did wizards have to be so cryptic when a simple explanation might suffice? "Once a Sinda feels the sea-longing, Pippin, it cannot be quenched."

Face forlorn, and tears, unbidden, Pippin blinked, clearing his vision. "So, he…"

"He is _not_ dying, Peregrin Took," said the wizard, now also sitting beside him. "Do not worry, it may be long years yet before he sets sail…other oaths and people may still stymie that journey for a time, I think."

 _May_ , Pippin thought, he did not like the sound of _may_. He sighed. "It is better news, I guess, than finding out he is leaving tomorrow…or worse, left without saying goodbye."

All he got in reply was a strange, knowing smile.

It wasn't comforting in the least.


	2. Tall Tales of Seashells

Disclaimer: Same dealio, don't own, you know.

A/N: Merry's up next! Still in Minas Tirith, this probably happens a day or so after the last one.

000

 _ **Tall Tales of Seashells**_

"What do you mean you can _hear_ the sea in that thing?" asked Merry. Pippin picked up one of the large, spiral seashells from the dresser in their room in the Fellowship's guesthouse. Legolas—according to his cousin—had picked up the shells when the Three Hunters were nearest to the ocean.

He still didn't know how the elf had enough time to do so!(1) Pippin had probably picked them up from some vendor in the market place selling wares to unsuspecting, young hobbits.

"And how do you know what the sea even sounds like?"

"Like this!" Pippin held the shell up to his ear and made an obnoxious _wooshing_ sound.

"You haven't even _seen_ the sea, Pip!"

Another hand, with long, elegant fingers, encircled one of the seashells. He hadn't jumped, Legolas sure liked to sneak around on silent feet, though. He frowned at the elf.

"Did you really find these?"

Legolas smiled.

"Alas, Merry," said the elf, "every once in a while, your cousin tells a fib."

"C'mon, Legolas! Why ruin my fun?"

"The shells are from Cirdan."

Merry exchanged a glance with his cousin.

"Who's he?"

"The shipwright, mayhap you or I may meet him yet," he answered with a shrug, "from what Glorfindel said, these were meant as a wedding present for Arwen and Aragorn."

"Strange choice, that," said Pippin. Merry aimed a hand at Pippin's head, the younger hobbit ducked and sidestepped it. He blinked. "Ha! You've gotten slow, Merry!"

"I'm still recovering!" He tried to hit Pippin again, missed.

Pippin danced backwards to their beds. "Only an excuse!"

Merry sighed. _Really Pip?_

"Anyway!" Pippin now leaned against his bedpost. "Why send shells?'

"Cirdan has a peculiar sense of humor."

Strider stood in the doorway, smiling. He wasn't wearing his crown, and even his garb was simple and brown, though not quite that of the ranger.

"When I was in Mithlond," as Strider spoke, Legolas cocked an eyebrow at his words, "indeed, my travels took me there as well; I sank a ship whilst Cirdan taught me to sail."

"You…sank a ship?" asked Merry.

"With a large seashell, yes." Strider winked at the elf.

"Oh, no, you're not _tricking_ me this time." Merry placed a fist on his hip. "It's like that story where you claimed to have played ball with Boromir when he was a lad!"

"Both are possible," said Legolas, "Aragorn wore the guise of Thorongil whilst Boromir was still a child for a few years, and seashells come in all shapes and sizes."

"I suppose...," frowning, he pointed at the large shells resting on the table, "and those sound like the sea."

"They do!" Both elf and man said in unison, then Legolas added: "if the gulls are not singing."

Pippin sighed... Merry lifted a seashell to his ear. It _wooshed_ …like wind, like waves, _perhaps_. He furled his brow in wonder, elf and man nodded.

 _One day,_ he decided, _I'll see if the sea really sounds like the inside of a shell._

000

(1) Pippin thinks this happened when Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, along with the Grey Company, were near Pelargir in Southern Gondor. xD

A/N: ONE of those tall tales is pretty much true. It is not the one with Boromir (or rather, Strider didn't play a game with him, but he did do SOMETHING, unbeknownst to Boromir). Where they got the seashells from, however, is actually…well…no one is quite correct about that one, either, though Glorfindel _was_ involved. :P


	3. Mended Wounds

Disclaimer: Same dealio, don't own, you know.

A/N: Don't give me that look. This is a drabble, it's just an _extra-long_ one. Perhaps you guys should consider this compensation for my...ah...break from writing. (In brief, my dad got quite ill for several months...but has gotten better).

Anyways, I'll try to write the next few drabbles a bit faster and keep them the proper length, too! It's Sam's turn now, so let the…ah…well…um party begin.

It's not one. Whoops. Sorry Sam.

000

 _ **Mended Wounds**_

"So," said Pippin, waving his hands in an obnoxious fashion. He sat on the docks with Merry, their feet dangling a few inches above the ocean tide. "Does the sea sound like a shell?"

Merry laughed.

"Well," said Merry, picking up one of the shells which Cirdan had sent to Aragorn four years before, "Almost. There's just less singing in these than there is here!"

 _How can they stand to joke like that so soon after Frodo has sailed?_ Sam thought, watching them from one of the alcoves in the Grey Havens. The alcove stood a floor above the two younger hobbits; on its column, vines with golden flowers, climbed, and Sam sat at an empty table. While he was still close enough to hear his friends, Sam had found he could not joined them. He had even attempted to, but when he had placed foot outside of this alcove to do so, his heart had sunk to his stomach.

It felt like he was dishonoring his Master's memory, despite that Frodo was gone, not dead.

Yet, these feelings—of guilt because he couldn't help Frodo overcome his pain inflicted by the Ring; of sadness, because he already missed him so very much—they reminded Sam of when he _had_ believed Frodo dead back in Shelob's lair. Or when they had heard Master Boromir had been slain from his brother in Ithilien.

He had never supposed that _separation_ might hurt as much as death.

"I don't know either." Sam jumped. He hadn't heard the speaker approach. The elf, however, was one who was familiar to him unlike the elves of the havens. It was Lord Glorfindel, baring two plates of food in his arms.

"Good evening," said the elf-lord, standing at the far end of the table where Sam sat watching his friends.

"Did…did I say that aloud?" Sam asked. Then he gulped, realizing that he had probably spoken out of turn. "I mean, not to offend, Master Glorfindel."

Instead of responding, Glorfindel glanced at the two happy hobbits on the docks.

"Frodo would love it!" said Pippin.

"Yes he would!" answered Merry in reply.

Neither had considered that Sam could hear them.

"No," Glorfindel said, answering Sam's question at last.

"Please," he added, inclining his head slight, "it's just Glorfindel, there's no need to call me lord, Samwise."

Sam almost gulped again.

"What?" Glorfindel asked. The elf-lord handed Sam a plate of food which he took, though Sam's hands were still slightly numb from shook. "An elf can't speak with a hobbit whom he considers his equal?"

"Equal?" he sputtered. "Ma—Glorfindel, you're a great lord; I've heard the stories."

"Then you should know," he said, "that it has been many a long year since I was lord of my own house. I am only a mere servant."

"I wouldn't say _that_."

Was the elf-lord unaware of how much he _glowed_ at times?

"Elrond's advisor, his steward, captain, and friend. And now I am those things to his elder son and heir, too." Glorfindel sighed, shaking his head as though a sudden weariness had fallen onto his shoulders. Then the elf-lord joined him at his table without invite. A sudden strong gust brought the smell of the sea and the song of elves, water, and seagulls up to the small alcove. "But I agree, I do not know how they can be so…cheerful. Nor how the elves of this haven can sing such joyous songs."

"It doesn't seem right."

"No," agreed Glorfindel, "not to us left behind, I suppose."

Together, they partook of their dinners, neither speaking as a strange yet companionable silence fell upon them. In the silent alcove, Sam considered the elf-lord that sat with him, and for the second time in his life, he saw the person beneath the veneer of elf grandeur.

Glorfindel, despite his subtle glow, his age and his wisdom, was not as _mystical_ as Sam originally thought. However, Sam did not understand why the elf-lord would consider himself the same as him. Glorfindel was a mighty lord, no matter what he claimed, and Sam, a simple hobbit.

"Why did you stay then?" Sam finally asked. "You're an elf. The lands that…they are going to are your home, aren't they?"

The elf-lord clasped his hands under his chin. "It all amounts to a promise made long ago…but more than that, it is my duty to all whom I love most which keeps me here."

"I guess that makes sense. It's relatable, I mean, after a fashion. Maybe—"

"Surprising, isn't it? Me, wise! I hear the children say that lie so very often," said Glorfindel. While Sam could not yet laugh, he did smile at the jest. At least, Sam _thought_ it was a jest. "But let us speak of them."

"What?"

"Elrond believes that speaking well of those we miss or love can help us cope," he said, nodding at Sam's confusion. "I find his ideas a tad strange at times, too, master hobbit. Although no one should dare call me a healer, I've been in Imladris long enough to see that it can help. It is better to do this than to bury those we love beneath such a wide sea."

That was an eerie picture. For a moment, Sam wondered if Glorfindel had done just that. He decided not to ask. (1)

 _No, I wouldn't even think of calling you a healer._ Sam was not Pippin, he could keep his thoughts to himself. Glorfindel, however, meant his eyes as though he had spoken those words aloud. Quickly, Sam turned, choosing to look the moon and stars as they reflected off the now darkened sea.

 _But…_ , Sam concluded, although he was still unnerved by the raw power, age, and, most of all, the _understanding_ he had seen in the elf's eyes, _at least you are trying to help._

That was good enough for Sam.

"Master Frodo, you mean?" asked Sam. "I…don't think I can talk about him..."

"No, no, of course not. It may only provid mending, not healing, but tell me of your Rose, that is, your wife, your children." Glorfindel leaned back against the column behind him. "Your home, Master Gamgee."

"Remind me of why it is you love them," he said, closing his eyes. "Please."

"I…"

"Perhaps your words will remind me of the reasons I have stayed as well."

Thus Sam did as the elf had requested. The words soared high and long, the tears, too, fell unbidden. For the week that the hobbits stayed in the Grey Havens after Frodo had departed, Sam often ate evening meal with the elf, speaking of all those he loved whom still dwell on the eastern shores. Glorfindel, he found, was good at listening. He asked questions, but only at the right times. He knew when to laugh, when to smile, when to remain silent.

Perhaps, his new friend was a better healer than Sam had first thought, or even a better one than Glorfindel, himself, claimed. Not that Sam would ever dare tell the elf-lord that his thoughts on this matter.

But these talks did not erase the hurt completely, but they weren't meant too. Instead, it reminded Sam of the truth: Rose, whom yet dwelled in these lands, was dearer to his heart than his Master of old.

For her, Sam stayed. Frodo could wait. That was a promise he could now give her.

Because love, any kind, is the putting aside of self.

000

(1) It may or may not be the _obvious_ allusion. Glorfindel likes to dance around his own problems, although the reason _Glorfindel_ stayed (or came back) isn't really for a person. So, it was a smart choice not to ask about it on Sam's part (and he will never know). It's just not something Glorfindel talks about, even with people he's quite close to such as Elrond, Erestor, Gandalf, Galadrial, or Cirdan. There is one other elf (alive…) who knows why, exactly, but it's _not_ whom you would expect, probably. :P

One fun tidbit: I kept debated whether Samwise would use the term "elven lord" or "elf-lord", but decided to just go with the latter.

Next up is Frodo. Uh oh.


End file.
